50 Shades of Grey. Ocean Grey.

50 shades of grey. Ocean grey. Today’s satellite chronicles of the expedition will begin with numbers and... grey. Day 36 of the passage. 43 degrees south latitude, 132 degrees west longitude. 540 miles to Point Nemo—the oceanic pole of inaccessibility. Our speed under reefed sails is about 5 nautical miles per hour—that is, knots. The young sailors are snuffling away in their cabins; the captain is half keeping watch, half sleeping in the wheelhouse. Until my faintly vigilant conscience dragged me out of bed at six in the morning, I honestly just lay there. Nastya was on watch until midnight and is asleep in the aft cabin under a warm blanket. Laduska is covered up to the top of her head; only her doll has poked a curious nose out from under its knitted hat. Andryukha is dozing in the wheelhouse under a sleeping bag. The wall newspaper lies on the table, waiting for new entries. An easterly wind is blowing, so for now it is fairly warm outside: +15, and about 17 inside. Humidity in our little home is 70%. Water is still seeping down somewhere along the shrouds, onto the saloon settee and into the galley cupboard. And there are a couple of other places we cannot find or seal. These leaks are harmless, but in the grey fog they certainly do nothing to lift the spirits. There is no horizon in sight. About five hundred metres from the boat, the cotton-wool sky collapses into the leaden swell of the largest ocean on the planet. On foreign charts, this is no longer even the Pacific Ocean but the Southern Ocean. That is what all the ocean waters surrounding Antarctica, as far north as latitudes 40–35 degrees south, are now commonly called. The Russian scientific community has not accepted the new ocean, so for us it is the Pacific. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ... .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. The letters talk about warm slippers, a soft sofa and cappuccino. And about a fireplace and a decorated Christmas tree. I’ll tell you while the crew are not looking: sometimes I long to go home so badly! To hug Mum, sing with friends around a campfire, and go to the banya. That was exactly how I dreamed of all our loved ones today. .. . Cappuccino would be nice too. I wonder what it tastes like? And then there are sales and new collections, the fur of a short coat, manicures and even hairdressers. And cafés smell so sweetly of coffee and perfume... mmmm... .. . I think our cafés are the coolest in the world. Only there do cosy prices come together with cosy interiors and delicious food. When we flew to Novosibirsk from the Caribbean almost two years ago, the contrast with foreign countries amazed me. Maybe we had simply been going to the wrong places? At home now there is frost, the scent of fir trees, sparklers and ice slides. And the people we love most. .. .. Living your dream is a difficult choice. What are you prepared to give up in order to follow the Path?.. .. . This is just me feeling blue before my husband and the children get up. It will be cheerier later: there will be the bustle of breakfast, an educational or popular-science film, I hope, and the young sailor and I will finish illustrating the wall newspaper. Plus a little warmth. .. .. .. For now, I think I’ll go round the windows and hatches with a cloth, before the condensation starts dripping onto our heads. .. .. Really, it would be a sin to complain. The swell is not big, and even sailing close-hauled has not turned life aboard into a relentless struggle. There are no forty-metre waves in sight; if we could carry on like this all the way to Cape Horn, it would be a proper holiday resort. The four of us drink tea and talk about plans and achievements. And if you brace yourself with your legs, you will not even fly off the settee. Well, we reef the sails and shake the reefs out again, adjust our course, and catch the plates. The lines are not freezing over yet; the boots and mittens are waiting for their time to come. The expedition continues. .. ..And now the captain has opened his eyes. I’m off to put the kettle on. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ... .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. Valdis Pelsh and the lads are travelling across Antarctica towards the Pole in all-terrain vehicles; fifteen hundred miles west of us, that heroic man Fyodor Konyukhov is rowing; and the orbits of space stations pass over Point Nemo, where we will find ourselves right on New Year’s Eve. So we are not alone in the Southern Ocean ). If we are lucky, no decommissioned space station will be scuttled there just as we pass the oceanic pole of inaccessibility. There are already about a hundred of them on the seabed in that area, because it is the most remote place from any land and therefore from people. We must ask Father Frost not to let any space debris fall on our heads. And if we are very lucky indeed, the cosmonauts will be flying directly over Point Nemo—and us—at just that moment. Then the nearest people will be only about 400 km away. Straight up, mind you. .. .. . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ... .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. Guys, have you noticed? The days are getting longer! The darkest part of this winter is already behind us. There’s no warmth, but hang in there! Thank you for your kind letters and support—they bring light. May all be well with you!